Little, but Mighty by Stuart Hough

 

Enyd wore her hair in a long silver plait which stretched the length of her back. It shone with lotion. The village appeared to have bestowed the role of ‘Grand Matriarch” upon her. No one disagreed. Throughout her life, her sharp intellect, wit and humour had never been in doubt. Since she had re-kindled her relationship with Breigh, she had re-found her long-forgotten silver jewellery of which, she had a considerable amount. She wore it all, seemingly to match her hair. Silver rings of all sizes adorned every finger. Heavy bangles and chains chinked on her wrists and ankles as she moved. Amulets hung from fine chains around her neck. The metal shone brightly in the daylight, contrasting with her deeply tanned skin. She seemed to be enjoying taking a more public role again and enjoyed the attention.

She had learned how to smile again, as she conducted herself with poise and elegance. She showed the type of fearlessness that only came with age and experience. She had cast off some of the trappings of age and dressed more, as her younger self. Often, that simply meant wearing less. Her newly regained confidence was infectious. Other women took confidence from her. It may have been any on-looker’s imagination or the fact that the season was unusually warm. These days however, there seemed to be more mothers and older women strolling around as equally bare-chested as their men.  Enyd and Breigh had spent some time attending to each other. Enyd had persuaded him to let her shave his head. His receding hair line was now gone, to be replaced with smooth tanned skin. She had combed his long silver beard and plaited with beads of rare glass and bone. New sharply detailed tattoos appeared over the older ones, which were now blurred with age. She had forgotten what it felt like to have someone else plait her hair.

He had made a ring of small benches for the children of the village. Now at its centre he kindled a small fire. She smiled as she watched him work. This had been his idea. Neither of them wanted for anything materially these days. She had been surprised how much she had missed companionship and the love of a good man in recent years. Now, their relationship and this place, had given them both a new purpose and responsibility. Around the circle he’d made a low willow fence. It marked the boundary of the enclosure and ‘their’ space. Only the children, ‘Grandma’ and ‘Grandpa’ were allowed in. Everyone else had to stay outside. Grandpa had decreed it, to everyone on the village. The children loved him for it and the fact that he could tell their parents what to do. Grandpa’s story-telling had become a feature of village life for the children. They gathered daily in this, the warmest season. They thought of him as wise, mysterious and highly entertaining. Their parents listened to him and Grandma also with a great deal of respect. He was once a mighty warrior and she the daughter of a long line of chieftains. As a young woman, she had great beauty, as she still did.

Enyd ushered the children into the enclosure. They sat on the benches and on the ground, leaving Grandma her usual space. There was an air of awe and reverence as the children assembled, unusually quietly. The boys sat nearest to Breigh. They had heard the stories about him from their parents. Stories of bravery, of defending the village and the tribe, of defeating huge foes. Stories about defending those he loved, often wounded and bloodied and nearly giving his life on many an occasion, but never defeated. Breigh himself was no story, no legend. He was the real thing and there he sat, smiling benevolently. The scars on his face, his arms and through the silver hair on his broad, bare chest, all told his story.

“Not all heroes carry a sword.” He'd told the children earnestly, in days past. “Some work the land with a plough in all weathers, so that we all may eat bread. I can’t do that. Some heroes wield a hammer to make the ploughs and the swords. I can’t do that either. Some grind flour and bake bread. They cook and weave cloth. I can’t do any of those things.” He insisted. “Some heroes build homes from the outside and from the inside. I was never very good at that either.” Never the less, they still looked upon him with hero-worship.

The old couple had a certain aura, between them. The girls gathered around Enyd. She was wise, beautiful, magnificent even. She had a welcoming smile and sparkling eyes for all. She would listen and speak to them without being patronising. They could ask her or tell her anything, knowing that she would answer without judgement. She knew the answers to everything and she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, to anyone. The children looked upon these elders as a bridge, past their parents to a different time and place. A place where values mattered, above all. The children loved the fact that no one told Grandma or Grandpa what to do. Not one of their parents, not Uiroco, not Uedica. No one. They did as they liked. That gave them a special place, within the village.

In the times and places of Breigh’s stories, anything was possible. Everything was fascinating and magical. There were fantastic beasts that no-one had seen, but him. There were Gods, Goddess’s, and spirits. There were magical horses, swords, cups and clothes that gave their owners unimaginable abilities. There were stories of adventures and of love. There were funny stories and scary ones too. In all of stories from throughout the ages, all of the women were astonishingly beautiful and all men were heroes. Grandma and Grandpa knew them all.

“Are we all here?” Breigh asked in a hushed tone. The children nodded eagerly. “There are no…” He paused for dramatic effect, looking around suspiciously. “…‘others’? here?” He slowly waved a muscled arm around their enclosure. The children looked around and satisfied themselves that the rules had been followed. They shook their heads to affirm. “Good. Then we’ll begin.”

Before long, Breigh was in full story-telling flow. His gaze was intense, his voice and body animated with expression. He described a time long ago, when children did not heed their parents. They had played in the woods and found an odd-looking egg. Their parents told them to take it back to where they’d found it. Instead, the children kept the egg to see what would hatch. To their dismay, when the shell broke, inside was a cockatrice. “The head of a cockerel, with wings and tail of a dragon. It killed anything and everything by just looking at it.” Breigh’s voice boomed. “It rolled its terrible, yellow eyes…” Breigh continued. Enyd rolled her own eyes, imploring him not to scare them too much. Some of the young girls had sidled over to Grandma and sat at her feet. They leaned into her long skirts, seeking the protection of the old woman from the fearsome tale. “The parents were turned to stone.” Breigh continued. “The village was no more. All from the cockatrice’s deadly stare…” The children listened in a horrified, wide-eyed silence. Others had gathered around the circle of children to hear the tale of the cockatrice. Parents smiled. They were delighted that their offspring may be frightened enough, into doing as they were told. Breigh concluded the grisly tale. After their village had paid a terrible toll, the cockatrice was finally killed by its only foe, a weasel. “The cockatrice was defeated by one of the smallest of animals. The weasel is the hero. A small, thin, wiry, creature whose eyes are as bright as its mind. It thinks first and then acts. That’s how it manages to bring down prey much bigger than itself. Remember when next your mother or father asks you to do something. Remember the cockatrice!” He boomed again. The children scurried to their parents, as they were called.

“Silly old fool.” Enyd scolded him after the children had left. “You’ll scare them to death.” She took his arm as they walked to re-join the rest of the village.

“They love it and they’ll be back tomorrow. I’ve no idea what I’ll talk to them about next time.” He said casually. “I’ve nearly run out of all of the stories I know. I may have to start making them up.” He grinned to her. Enyd laughed and pulled herself closer to him.

“You know, I used to think the older you become, the quieter you become.” Enyd said thoughtfully as they walked in the fading light.

“What?” Breigh replied, in mock surprise. “We can’t have that!” He smiled to her again. “Let’s go and make some noise then, as we used to.”